The 68th Hunger Games
by nevergone4ever
Summary: Twenty four tributes, only one of them survives... Will it be Sparkella? Jack? Kristine? Justice? Roland? Or perhaps YOUR tribute? SYOT open, but only male parts left.
1. Sparkella from Five

**A/N: SYOT, here we go : )**

**District Five girl- Sparkella Munez, 12**

I woke up. My legs were cramped so I stretched them out a bit, peering out into District Five. People rushed about their busy schedules, talking on their phones and nodding. Lights on buildings flashed, and I heard small electronic buzzes.

"Morning," I said to myself. "Good morning, Sparkella."

I had long forgotten my last name. My parents died in a freak accident ten years ago, and since that happens a lot here, the children's homes were full- all seven of them. I was forced to live by our only water source, the Blue Bay River, in a ratty old cardboard box. I live under the bridge, and I have almost no money saved up. I did odd jobs such as polishing shoes or stacking items on grocery store shelves, but I happened to go through a growth spurt about a year ago and then my clothes would not fit and I looked absolutely ridiculous.

Then a month ago I found out that I was twelve years old by City Hall.

Normally this would be news that would make me smile and cheer. But not today. Today would be the day I've been waiting for since then- I could be Reaped for the Hunger Games. And I'm scared.

I finger-combed through my whitish-blond hair and spread the tiniest bit of raspberry juice across my lips. I wouldn't waste; the berries that grew under the bridge were going fast. Soon they would be down to only about a bushel, and I couldn't last the winter with that many only.

In a way, I guess, I was hoping to get Reaped and get out of this place I call home- under a bridge, in a small raspberry thicket, in a ratty old box. But in another way, I was glad to be fortunate enough to have food, shelter, and water. I was better off than some.

The night before the Reaping, yesterday, I had a dinner of grain and raspberries- tesserae, however gross, was my lifesaver. River water was my drink, and I coughed it up twice before it stayed down.

Then I went around the city, looting the trash bins and Dumpsters for food or anything useful. My only possessions of this world besides the ones I listed before were a grey sweater that a kind woman gave to me, which she was going to donate to the orphanage, ratty jeans with multiple stains, sturdy boots missing laces and the soles worn off, a cracked old phone I had tried to make work, a pair of flannel pants with the knees worn off, a blanket made of old socks, some perfume (only some drops left, though) in a cracked bottle, some old bushel boxes, three old and yellowed library books that reek of garbage, and a pad of paper with a very leaky pen that writes sometimes in blue, other times in black. My food, stored in bushel boxes, are two bushels of tesserae, one bushel of berries, and one bushel of assorted things- orange peels, cold and wet noodles, half-rotten apples, and hardtack and things of that nature. To most, trash. To me, treasure.

Scavenging around Five is not something I do often due to the high crime rate in the alleys. Once I was nearly beaten up by some gang until I hid inside a barrel and they could not find me. Another time some creepy man offered me candy, which I took, but found that on the inside there was a razor blade.

I slunk along the dimly lit streets, where few walked. All were talking on their cellular phones, all were clad in business wear. _It seems like nobody is concerned about the Reaping tomorrow, _I noted. _Maybe I have the date wrong._ But nope, one check inside a phone store at the calendar app told me that it is indeed tomorrow.

I scavenged through trashcans, finding mostly spoiled food or old wires but sometimes coming up with treasure- a half-eaten banana, a cooked potato that must have dropped on the ground, a small lid full of some powdery tan stuff that looks like what they call foundation. I put it all into my bushel and kept looking. By the end of the night, around three in the morning without any violence, I had come up in addition, an oven mitt that is too burned for any use, meat gristle, and the best treasure of all:

An old dress.

The dress was sleeveless, just a bit big for me. It was cream colored with lacy black trim. I saw plainly why it was thrown out: the back was torn out, creating the image of a backless dress. I swallowed, sizing up the damage. It was already done, no need to try and fix it. But if I did wear it to the Reaping tomorrow, what would people think? A scrawny young girl, an albino with the palest skin ever, a greasy-haired lassie? In a backless, gorgeous dress?

I decided to take the chance.

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

"Sparkella Munez!"

I look around for a person to walk up when it hits me: I am chosen. I will die. I am going to be sent to my death. And Munez must be my last name.

I stumble up to the stage, and a couple of girls giggle at my dress. I blush profusely, lowering my eyes.

My last time of seeing my district, and I am laughed at.


	2. Hydrangea from 9

**A/N: SYOT still open. Slots NOT available- Girls from 5, 1, 4, 7, 12, and 9. Boys not available- the guy from 7. But all the rest can be possible tributes sent in by YOUUU! Or, if you don't have time, send one tribute a special gift that will be useful later in the game! Here's the shop for people who have NOT yet submitted a tribute but want to help one- **

**If you want, you can be a sponsor to either your tribute, or one that you want to win. Here's the parachute gift shop!**

**And BTW- if you do buy something from it, make sure to specify what you want. For example, if you pick 70 and just 70, I won't give the tribute anything. You must be specific! Ex. "I have 70 points for you. A dagger for… Hydrangea!"**

**Sponsor points shop so far *Message me what you want when you get enough points, or leave a review on this story if you're a guest! (Get these by- ten for a nice review, ten for doing my profile quiz, twenty for a fave, ten for a follow. Yes, reviews count for my other stories as well. :- ) )**

**OR you can be a sponsor to either your tribute, or one that you want to win. Here's the parachute gift shop!**

**10 points- empty bottle or four arrows**

**15 points- book of ten matches or a small box of thumbtacks or half a head of lettuce **

**20- sleeve of twenty crackers or a pair of warm mittens or two powdered meals or a jar of peanut butter, jam, or marmalade**

**30- ointment for burns or poison ivy or small bottle iodine or a pan**

**40- compass, knife blade, or filled water bottle or laxatives or a cold, wet cloth**

**50- large bottle iodine or full knife or bow**

**60- small backpack and mutt medication **

**70- dagger or a book on 'what food is not poisonous?' **

**80- large backpack or loaf of wheat bread with nuts or a gallon and filled water jug**

**90- a warm blanket or a large sword or body armor or any medicine**

**100- a tiny tent or a set of four knives or a sleeping bag**

**110- a feast of three apples, a bowl of soup, a salad, and a water bottle with a warm hat and twelve arrows**

**120- large tent**

**130- any three weapons of choice- large daggers, large spears, large knives, large swords, large bow…**

**140- first-aid kit, large tent, six knives, and a pair of hat and mittens**

**150- a feast of a whole chicken with vegetables and chocolate truffles for dessert plus a tent and blanket and sword.**

**District 9, Hydrangea Samson, 16**

I wake up to find that my younger brother is no longer in my bedroom. He must have left sometime in the night. Not that it bothers me, but I do worry about him. He's just thirteen and has so many nightmares about getting picked again. Last year our cousin, Samuel, was picked and he died in the Cornucopia's fight. It was so sad. He was just 15.

I reluctantly slide out of bed and pull on some stiff jeans. Time to get some cropping done. I needed to water our wheat and tesserae crops, as Nine has not seen rain in over a month. I filled up some buckets with old water and dumped them into funnels, which led to underground tunnels. From there, they would travel on a downward slope until electricity from Five would shoot the water into a small wheel-type machine, and the water would shower down on the crops from a revolving circle in the middle with spokes radiating out from it.

Every family was expected to raise twenty acres of crops and keep only a couple of bushels to last the harsh winter. The Capitol demanded a certain amount, and we got to keep the extra, but this year it would not be much… so as a result of that, both Joe and I had to take tesserae to live. My mother begged us not to, as she didn't want to lose us, so I did in in secret and apparently Joe did too. I looked at the book and saw his name with three slips in it. He must have only taken one, but that one tesserae bundle was enough. He could possibly be Reaped.

Aside from the tesserae and soybeans and corn, we are given one and a half cows. We get to keep one but only one alive one, and the 'half' of another is shipped to us- as long as we provide the required number bushels. If not, we only get half a cow.

But that one alive cow provides a lot for us– milk for butter, cheese, yogurt, and a sort of milky pudding stuff we mix with oats and sugar and call 'sweet pie'. It could also provide a calf, if it passes inspection undetected, but only one or two families we know of have gotten a pregnant cow, and even then, one family butchered theirs before they realized it was with child. Ten sends the cows at a young age, about six months, and they keep all the old ones, the pregnant ones, and the male ones.

I pluck a piece of straw off the ground that just fell off a passing tractor and chew it. I don't, like some farmers, simply chew it and spit it out. I figure that if cows eat it, so can I. I actually eat it. It creates a funny feeling in my stomach once I've consumed quite a few, but it saves a portion of food for later and that's good enough for me.

Watching the water stream down, I see a familiar face- my friend Kennedy. She has a small, round face, and long brown hair. She's short and unfriendly, the polar opposite of me- lanky, tall, awkward, pale hair, tanned skin, with no freckles and I am so polite that I say "Excuse me" whenever I run into chairs.

"Ken!" I yell, cupping a hand around my mouth. "Over here!"

She blinks when she sees me but obeys. "Hiya, girlfriend," she says sarcastically. I nod at her.

"Happy belated birthday."

Kennedy furrows her brow. "Not till next Saturday."

I nod back at her. "But who even knows if we'll be here by next Saturday?" I say, trying to mimic her whole 'I'm angry at the world' tone.

Kennedy nodded in approval. "That's the spirit," she said flatly.

Kennedy was turning 17 next Saturday, as you might have guessed, and all she wanted for her birthday was not to be picked. A stupid birthday gift? Not really. It would be an excellent one, actually. Of all the people in my district, I think Kennedy has known most of the kids going into the Games, and only one has come out- a girl who used to babysit her, a tall brunette named Syria. Otherwise, Kennedy has known five cousins, one sister, four people from school, one neighbor and two people from sports. And if you add it all up, that is a LOT.

"So why are you up so early?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Nervous. What about you?"

I always never know what to expect from Kennedy, but I have to admit, I was surprised when she said confidently, "No worries. I'd never get picked."

I opened my mouth slowly. "What?" I asked.

"It's rigged. My cousin knows a guy, and I paid him to have every single one of my slips taken out."

I gasped. "Can they seriously do that? You'd get in so much Capitol trouble if they found out!"

She shrugged. "Relax. They can't prove nothing, and besides. There are thousands of other girls out there. One's bound to be picked sometime, and they can't just accuse a girl of not getting picked."

I struggled to relax. "But… if they found out…"

"It's OK, Hy. Just wait and see some random girl get picked."

-.-.-.-.-

"And for our girl tribute… Hydrangea Samson!"

I saw Kennedy's mouth fall open, and her mouth trying to form the words "I volunteer." But shock was too terrible to her, and she fell to the ground. Peacekeepers rushed over as I walked to the stage. I was vaguely aware of my mother weeping and Joe screaming and my father yelling at the Peacekeepers. I was vaguely aware of girls from my school breathing a small sigh of relief. And I vaguely heard our escort say, "Shake hands."


	3. Diamond from One

**A/N: SYOT STILL OPEN, SUBMIT TODAY! :D I ACCEPT BOTH PM AND REVIEWS.**

**District 1- Diamond Star, 17**

I wake up to silken sheets and a goose-down pillow. I snapped my fingers. "Hortense," I called out to my maid, slipping into my slippers. "Make my bed, would you?" She gives a curt nod and rushes to my aid of helping me into my robe- such a chore, honestly.

The first thing I do is fall gracefully onto a fainting couch and ring the bell for Waiter Charles. He arrives in an instant, stroking his short mustache. "You rung, Madame Diamond?"

"Yes," I say airily. "I'm craving… strawberries."

Charles gives off a nod and in a few minutes, he arrives with a platter of everything strawberry- yogurt, parfait, strawberries and cream, strawberries and sugar, pie… I select a small tart and wave him off.

I eat the tart in small bites, giggling at a rather hilarious sketch on the television set about a bird on a banana tree. "Honestly," I sputter, "What bird would be dumb enough to eat a radish?"

I notice Hortense staring. "LAUGH!" I scream at her. She laughs in a silent voice, her eyebrows drawn together in fear. I nod, smiling slightly. "That will do," I say in a light lilt.

I am in a much better mood than usual. Today is the day of the Reaping of the 68th annual Hunger Games, and I am very excited. I haven't broken the news to anybody that I will volunteer yet, but instead I shall surprised them. I am well known in District One: I am the chief head of trade's one and only daughter. Sure, Daddy has produced an array of sons. Ten, to be exact. But I am the gem of the mine; he always wanted a girl, and here I am. I am the youngest. He says that is because once I was born he didn't want any more children, since I was supremely perfect.

It is only the highest of praise for me, which is good, because if it was not, then I'm afraid I would have to execute him. It's a special privilege that very few people have. I can execute anyone and everyone who gets on my nerves. That's why I executed all of my brothers and their girlfriends on live television. I didn't need any suckers in the way of me and my daddy's bond.

Aside form that privilege, I also am allowed to clear the Training Center whenever I wish to practice for the Games, which is a few times a week. I practice my axe-swinging skills, mostly, but I also perfected my aim with a slingshot. While it might seem like a weak sport, my daddy imported in some special rocks for me to practice with- the first thing they hit blows up. I have taken out half a wall of the Training Center and an Avox with those rocks, but it was worth it.

I flung the remote lazily at the television machine to make it stop running, and once it did I flounce upstairs to my room._ What to wear, what to wear. _I decide on a very flattering deep purple dress with a black sash. It is all satin, except the skirt was taffeta- a material that Hortense specializes in making. It's a sort of fine but lustrous silk with a crisp texture.

I call Hortense to crimp my hair, brush my teeth, and do my makeup- light purple with fine white touches. She then dyes my eyelashes snow white with maroon tips. I think that purple would have been better, so I make a mental note to myself to send her over to the executioner later. Lastly, she decorates my arms, legs, and chest with a fine, shimmery sort of dust. It's orangey stuff and makes me suspicious at first. But later, when I stand in front of my mirror, flaunting my curves, I am sure that she made the correct choice. It makes my skin pure gold. Gorgeous.

I marched downstairs, Hortense fluffing my hair, giving me admiring looks. Looks that said I want to be you. She was adorable, truly. I did love Hortense. She was my best friend. I decided not to give her away to the executioner. Maybe she could be my prep stylist in the Capitol, although I doubted they'd let an Avox be that high a ranking.

I looked at Hortense with serious eyes once we got to the bottom of the staircase. "Can I trust you not to tell my most secret secret?" I asked.

Hortense nodded, her eyes serious as well.

"Good. Well, here we go…" I took a very deep breath, swallowed, and looked at her. "I'm gonna volunteer for tribute today, which is why I need you to carry on my duties here."

She pointed to herself, as if asking 'me?'

"Yes, you." I rolled my eyes. "Or shall I have CHARLES do it or…?"

She shook her head rapidly, and I grinned smugly.

"Good. I'll need you to execute a peasant or so every week, just until I come back. You may throw the bodies to the other peasants, since I don't want my people to starve." Hortense's face contracted at the thought. "And you must demand things. Let me hear your best diva voice."

Hortense pointed to her throat, and started to open her mouth. I held up a hand. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Nobody wants to see that, I can guarantee."

She closed her mouth, sheepish.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"And the female tribute will be… Alissa Grover!"

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" my shriek rang above the other seventeen-year-old's, and I darted up to the stage. A tearful thirteen-year-old girl looked very grateful, and I shot her a pointed look. This was my spotlight, and no little preteen was going to get in the way of my victory.

"A volunteer!" the escort sounded pleased. "What is your name, pray tell?"

"Diamond Star," I said, grinning at a camera. "I'm the chief of trade's daughter." A few men and women began shrieking out "BOOOOO!" along with a small boy from the twelve-year-old section. I gestured quickly to a Peace Keeper, who came over to me.

"Have those booing me all executed immediately," I told him. He nodded, moving towards a rapidly growing mob. I managed to keep a straight face as half were gunned down at once, and the rest were hustled into a white van. Our escort and the other boy tribute were disgusted, but I enjoyed the bloodshed. These people had to pay for what they had done.


	4. Cloe from 12

**A/N: Submit, submit, before it's too late! Spots taken: Girl from 1, 3, 4, 5, 9, 12. Boy taken: 3 and 7.**

**District Twelve- Cloe Berry, 16**

The morning of the Reaping is very emotional for me. Comfort Erika, whose first Reaping is today. Comfort Evan, who is scared of the Pricking of the Finger before the Reaping. Comfort Elijah, who is terrified of his next Reaping to come. He is only eleven and should not have to go this terror of knowing that one of us could potentially be picked. One year it was Evan's friend Garth, and he died on the last day. He was not killed; he simply starved to death.

Mother is in a panic. She has no money to buy rolls for breakfast, so we must eat old and wilted lettuce and water that has coal dust in it. I choke it down, and it burns my mouth's taste buds.

The lettuce is not as bad, since it provides at least a bit of nutrition and tastes watery. But if you look at it, there are black splotches from decay and you almost vomit.

When breakfast is done, Erika and I go to the small room we share. She looks through her four outfits, deciding which one would be suitable for her first Reaping. There is a too-big grey dress with droopy sleeves, her white blouse and navy skirt of a school uniform, black trousers and a grey shirt, or my old black and white striped dress that I outgrew just a couple of years ago. I point to it.

"No," says Erika sadly, pulling out her sullen grey dress. "That's too good for an event like this." My sister looked miserable.

"Don't you like it?" I asked her, grabbing my black dress. She looked at me with watery grey eyes.

"I love it," she says softly, dabbing at a tear. "It's the best thing I ever owned, and I want to wear it to something happy, not something I could die from."

I nod as she speaks, but once she's finished I grab an excuse for her. "This is District Twelve, Erika. What else could you wear it to?"

"You make a good point," she replies slowly.

"Wear it. Please? For me? I'd be very happy." I plaster on a smile for her, and she giggles. "Well, maybe I could…" She knew that I rarely smile, and I can only be myself when I'm with her. "Do you really want me to?"

"I really do," I say.

"OK, I will." Erika gives me a hug, and after a second or two I hug her back.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

There she is: Effie Trinket. She's about to announce the tribute for this Games, for the girls. I am praying that it's not Erika, I know she took tesserae secretly. She took two supplies of it, I took ten. I know that it's not my brothers, as for something different she did boys first, but it cannot be Erika. There is three slips in there of thousands, maybe millions if lots took tesserae. There is no way it could be her.

"Erika Berry!"

I gasp. The world seems hazy. I hear Erika burst into tears, screaming, "Cloe! Cloe! Cloe, don't go!" Wait, why would I go when she's Reaped? Girls around me shove me to the stage, and I climb up in a daze, very confused. My sister was Reaped. I was not Reaped. What happened?

"Shake hands!" barks Effie. I do.

When my family comes to visit, I ask why I had to go up when Erika was Reaped. They all give me a strange look.

"Erika was not Reaped," says Mother slowly. "She didn't say anything about Erika. She said Cloe Berry."

Erika, stained with tears, hugs my so tightly I run out of breath. But I can't enjoy this moment with my family. I am so confused as to what happened. I clearly and distinctly heard 'Erika Berry'. How would my name go into Erika's?

"Bye, Cloe," Elijah says softly and I look up. He reaches his arms out for one final hug and I oblige.

On the train ride I am confused.


	5. Kristine from 4

**District Four, Kristine Murray, 18**

By five in the morning, I'm not in bed, sleeping like the rest of my family. I'm swimming in a shallow lake, hunting for fish with a trident.

The trident is copper, a beautiful specimen. Its three prongs tell me that a fish could never escape it. The handle has a thick rubber grip so I never let go of it. If I did, I would never forgive myself. It's the best thing I own, quite possibly. I knew that once I saw it, I'd never want another trident. I absolutely knew it. Nothing could be better than this copper, shiny, metallic, amazing-

Whoops, there goes a fish.

I nabbed it easily and swam to the fishing boat, a small wooden thing painted white and navy blue. I call it _Kristine Pristine_. In my opinion, it's the best name. The best- not as good as my trident, but I do enjoy the name.

Today was not like any other day, though. Today I was going to the village green for the Reaping of the Hunger Games. I wouldn't volunteer for anybody unless it was my sister, but she was not going to get Reaped. After all, we have a population of 13-

Whoops, there goes another fish. A school of them, actually. Flickering silver and purple flies by my eyes. I curse under my breath, causing a mouthful of water to be swallowed.

I decided to retire to my boat and cast a net in. I can't think clearly and catch fish at the same time. I'm a terrible multitasker. I swam up to my boat, hopped in, and tossed a net over the side. Immediately a few fish fell into my trap, and I grinned. I would make lots of money at the market today.

An hour later, I awoke from a catnap, startled. There was a large barge out on the ocean, about a mile from here. Although I could not see it, I could hear it- and smell it. The pungent smell of diesel and the horn blaring told me enough.

I went back to my home. Fish in the net writhed for a few minutes, then all at once they seemed to be still. I parked my small fishing boat in the harbor. "I'll come back for you," I whispered. I snatched up my trident in my left hand, my dominant hand, and the net in my right, and I walked home, water glistening off of my black and purple wetsuit.

Once I got home, Mom and Dad asked me what I was going to wear. They didn't want to go into the Games, so I hadn't told them my plan.

Of course I would wear only my finest- a turquoise skirt and white blouse. Sure, I had an array of nice dresses, but I liked skirts better.

I went to the third floor to brush my hair and saw my little sister, Carmella, on the floor sobbing.

"What's wrong?" I yelped, dashing over to her.

She looked at me with huge, teary eyes. "I'm afraid I'll get Reaped," she whimpered.

I sighed. This happened every year- well, technically this was only her second year, but still.

"Carmella," I told her. "You're not going to go into the Hunger Games."

"How can you be so sure?" she retorted.

I smiled. "You'll see."

"NO!" she shrieked. "You are NOT volunteering! Kristine!"

"I have to if you are," I whispered to her- reverse mechanisms always work. "Wouldn't it be awesome to live in the victor's village?"

"But… but…" she sputtered anxiously.

"Sh, Carmella. Don't tell Mom, Dad, or Kirk, and you'll be fine."

"But you CAN'T," she sobbed. I rolled my eyes. Honestly, Carmella was such a drama queen.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"And for our girl tribute…. Oopsies, nearly dropped the paper there! For the girls, CARMELLA MURRAY!"

"NO!" screamed Carmella from the thirteen-year-old's section.

"I volunteer as tribute!" I yelled to the stage. I was so far back. What if she didn't hear me? "I VOLUNTEER!" I wormed through the thick crowd of other eighteen-year-olds to get to the foot of the stage. "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"

**A/N: Spots taken- Girls from 1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 12. Boys taken- 3, 7, 9. You can pick a tribute still! Girls available are 2, 6, 9, 10, and 11. Boys available are 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 8, 10, 11, and 12.**


	6. Jack from Seven

**District Seven, Jack Marko, 14**

My name? Jack Marko, if you please.

My age? 17, I say, but in reality I'm just 14.

My whereabouts? I don't usually let people know, but it's an old, abandoned house if you swing a left at the main fountain and walk for about two miles. Every other day the kind baker brings me a basket of food and supplies- soap, an extra blanket, candles, the whole nine yards.

Some say that there's nothing left in this house. A few old bats, maybe. Perhaps a dog or raccoon has taken up residence in the abandoned house of the birch forest.

But they're all wrong, every last one of them.

My parents were killed by Peacekeepers. A fire stormed out in our neighborhood. All that was left of them was carnage- blackened pulps of skin and bone and blood.

Travis, Kostos, and I were at school when this happened. We heard the explosion. The south wall of our school was blown up. We were allowed home early, carrying only our backpacks and lunch pails.

Nothing was left. There was no place for us to go.

Sure, there was the orphanage. There were people willing to adopt us, since Seven just adores children. We could have had a nice family, a normal life.

But I was ahead of the game.

I thought about it and decided that if half the kids who were adopted stayed with their parents for, say, five years, then they'd forget nearly one fourth of what their parent's voices sounded like. Then the real avalanche would come. Without any pictures, they'd make their adoptive parents seem more and more like their real parents who were dead. Within seventeen years they'd forget exactly what their parents sounded like, looked like, and felt like. That's right. You can remember a person by touch.

But nobody knows this except me.

You see, if your parents are dead and you have nobody to replace them, no orphanage grandmother or foster parents or anything like that, then you remember your parents vividly. I still remember my mother in huge proportions. I remember that she had choppy, black hair and big brown eyes. Her birthday was June 23rd. She always smelled like sauces- tomato, alfredo, etc. Her name was Ava. She was an amazing dancer. Her voice was so soothing. She taught me to play my beloved guitar.

My father was tall with a brown beard, but he was bald. My father's name was Kostos. Kostos Jr. was named after him. My father loved playing poker, and his voice was deep and booming, always sounding like a train coming down the tracks. He had thick black glasses that never stayed on right.

You see how I remember my parents? Nobody who lives with foster parents could do that. They'd simply think that their mother had long, blond hair like their foster mother. But no, what if their mother had curly, average-length red hair? You'd have no photos to prove it, so they'd keep thinking false thoughts about their mother.

Such is the case today. I saw a fostered family walk by the house. Two girls, one boy, two parents. All smiling, all black-haired, all laughing.

What if their parents had brown hair, not black hair?

So proves my point.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Today was Tuesday, the day the baker would come to bring us food. Travis, who is eleven, jumped from tree to tree until he got to the front of the birch forest and perched on a small platform we made a month ago, which we call our lookout spot. It's hammered to a branch fork, and is pretty sturdy. I couldn't stand on it with my brothers on it as well, but without me they can both stand on it.

Travis waited patiently on the platform for a few hours until it got to be breakfast time. I filled a pail with a hard-boiled egg and a toasted bagel with grape jam for him to eat while he waited to give us the signal. I sent Kostos out. He climbed the two flights of stairs- one to get to the second floor, one to get to the roof- and then jumped from tree to tree, like Travis did hours before, the pail handle in his mouth.

I watched from the roof, a distance away, as Travis began eating his egg and as Kostos Jr. jumped back to the house. It was not five minutes before Travis sang out a bird's call, a sort of whistling sound. I had only time to watch Travis duck down into some leaves before I saw the baker.

The baker was a tall, red-faced man with a few pounds to spare. He is very angry most of the time, which is why we must be alerted before he comes, so we may open the door right away. If we don't, he throws everything into a pond nearby and storms off.

Today he took his time coming up the path, and Kostos waited at the door to open it. I ran down to the basement, our workshop, and grabbed the items we had for trade today- a chair, some wood I had chopped, and a few wooden spoons. Travis is in a utensil-making phase.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. The impatient knocking sounded throughout the house, and Kostos flung open the door.

"Welcome, sir!" he proclaimed loudly.

The baker stormed in, looking around suspiciously. I smelled fresh bread, and was that garlic? Delicious.

"What have trade today?" he spat out.

I showed him the spoons, chair, and logs.

He sighed. "Chair, no. No need chairs for bakery. I take spoons and log. You take this. BYE."

He set the basket on our table, took the basket from last time, and filled it with spoons. Then he heaved a few logs onto his shoulder and spat, "Leave rest at edge of forest. I take them later."

With that, he was gone.

"Kostos. Travis. You take the logs to the edge of the woods, now," I commanded. They nodded curtly. Kostos began hauling one to the door. Travis took one last bite of his bagel.

I began unloading the basket. This was not a very good day compared to all the others. One bar of soap. One hand towel. One stick of deodorant. Three oranges. Two loaves of tesserae bread, yuck. One small wheel of cheddar cheese. One slab of fish, from Four? Yes, Four was the fishing district. Two sticks of butter. One shaker of salt. One quart of milk. Two apple tarts, and the last thing was a minced meat pie that had gone stale.

I began slicing up the bread, slathering on some butter, and cutting up an orange for breakfast for Kostos and I. Travis with his bagel and egg would not be hungry anymore, and even if he was he would understand that food is low here.

I waited another hour. The boys were still not back. What had happened?

I climbed to the roof and began swinging to the look out. I scanned the tops of bushes, buildings, and trees. There! I saw two boys clad in grey and white coats. They were looking at a sign. What? They were not supposed to go into town, no! They were told to simply put the logs by the edge of the forest.

I was the only one who went to town, and that was to earn coins by playing my guitar. They were not supposed to go here for fear of revealing our location.

"And you're still not done," I whispered. There were three logs to go.

I heaved a sigh and went to the kitchen again. I had a log in each hand, a small stub of a branch in each hand to make handles. I walked two miles to the edge of the forest and dropped them at the pile that they had made.

Secondly, I strolled into town, searching for them. I found Travis and Kostos near a tavern, still staring at that sign. I tapped them on the shoulder, hard.

"Ow," Travis said, turning around.

The sign read **REAPING TODAY. BE AT THE TOWN SQUARE BY NOON OR BE PROSECUTED BY LAW.**

****It was 11:30. People were already beginning to gather.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

They pricked my finger. They shoved me to a roped-off section. They showed a video. They called a name. Guess what that name was?

"JACK MARKO."

**A/N: Review!**


	7. Roland from 9

**A/N: Hey, Guests! Just so you know, you can change your name… I'd prefer if you did that, since quite a few guests have submitted tributes and I'm not sure who is who. So could you possibly change your names and tell me who you are? Epic, thanks XD.**

**UPDATE- people available for being tributes ARE- girls from 9 and 10… and boys from 4, 5, 6, 8, 10, 11, and 12!**

**District 9, Roland Sanders, 17**

Work in the wheat fields is back-breaking work for some. For others, it's a chore to get off their back so they can quench their thirst with cold, frosty water. And for yet others, it's something to be angered about by the Capitol. But for me, it's dedicated work. I love working in the wheat fields for an unexplained reason. Perhaps it's the sense of satisfaction I get when I see a golden field- that I worked hard to make grow- bloom. Or perhaps the look that my parents give me when I harvest more than any other teenager. A look of pure admiration.

Maybe I just like the ability to feed people. When I was fifteen I took a field trip at school to Eleven, where we worked in orchards instead of fields of crops. I remember that all the people there had brown skin, while us from Nine had farmer's tans. They had no hats to wear when the hot sun streamed down on their heads. They got no breaks, and if they slacked or tried to take a small sip of water, they were whipped. We watched one woman die of heat stroke. They simply tossed her body into a smelly grave. My stomach was sick. I didn't want to be in Eleven anymore.

Our teachers saw the woman's death, too, and they quickly escorted us back to the bus. But that did not erase my memory of it. I think about that poor female every day. The life she could have lived. If she had a family. What her mother did when she found out. Or were her parents still in the dark? Did they even know about their poor daughter's fate?

Today was a Sunday- supposedly a day of rest. In reality it just meant there was an hour shaved off our working time, which I silently despised. Today at breakfast my uncle came over. My mother, who worked in the soybean crops, continually cheered at breakfast. I sat silently, eating my oats and honey.

"Roland," asked my mother. "Why are you not happy?"

"Today is the Reaping," I croaked. "This may be my last time to work the fields. I don't want to leave. This is my home."

"But if you get Reaped, surely somebody will volunteer. After all, you are the best field worker here," assured my mother. But I shook my head.

"People will not be willing to die in exchange for a great worker to be spared," I said quietly. "I might as well volunteer if nobody will for me."

"Roland," boomed my uncle with his huge voice. "There are thousands of children in Nine. The chance that you would be Reaped is one in, say, four-thousand. There is no chance. You have never taken the tesserae. And if you do get Reaped, you will do very well."

"Paolo," shouted my mother at him. "Don't put such thoughts in his head! He's only young!"

"Young?" I yelled. "I am seventeen, Mum!"

"But to me, you're still my little boy," my mother mumbled, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Loretta," hushed my uncle, walking her out of the kitchen.

There I finished my oats and honey in utter silence.

An hour later, I was ready to go to the fields. I saw a familiar face and caught up with my friend, Gavin.

"Hello, Roland," Gavin greeted me happily.

"Why are you so perky?" I asked.

"This my last year of the Reaping," he explained, like it was obvious. "If I do not get picked, my parents be very glad, since then all they kids have not picked. You see?"

"I see," I told him.

People from Nine are not known for their vocabulary, SOR-RY.

"I am nervous," Gavin confided. "What if I do get picked?"

I remembered my parents' conversation from earlier. "Little chance," I said. "Like one in four thousand."

Gavin sniffled. "That is the chance you have also."

"Yep." I started on the field's watering.

"And so we not be picked."

"That's right, Gavin."

"Who gets picked then?"

Did I ever mention that Gavin is not the smartest?

"Other people. Not us."

"I see," he said.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Roland Sanders!" came my name from the voice of the escort.

Gavin, tearful, came up to me at the Justice Building. "You said you wouldn't get picked," he accused.

"I know." I hugged my best friend good-bye. "I know."


	8. Caty from Eight

**District Eight, Caty Liann Peterson, 17**

Every day there is a Reaping in 8, it rains.

Today was no different. Rain poured down the sides of my apartment like… well, rain sliding down the sides of a building. It was all dreary and bleak; as was my mind.

I woke up, examining my room. Usually I don't know what to wear, but today I do exactly, since this time only comes once a year. My navy blue strappy dress and sandals.

I'm quite confident about this Reaping. I have never taken tesserae, and nobody in my family nor circle of friends has ever been picked, so I need not worry.

I get up and scan myself in my mirror. I'm rather gorgeous- kidding. My hair is auburn and wavy, and it's always in two braids. My eyes are huge, framed by long black eyelashes. My skin is permanently pale green due to a mishap at a dye factory I used to work at. My limbs are able and nimble, although they look a but willowy. I'm slim but have a good figure. I nod to myself. _Morning, Caty_.

I strolled down the stairs and made myself a peanut butter sandwich. I hate food here. As Eight is the district of textiles, there's always bits of cotton floating around the air that settles down and forms dust. My peanut butter sandwich makes my mouth dry, but I don't drink anything.

I sit at the table, tracing circles on my arm.

_What are you doing, Caty? You should be with your friends. Aren't they going to the movies?_

Well, yes, but it's the Reaping. They shouldn't be so happy.

_You've always been the happy one. Go on, go be with them._

That's a lie. I'm actually rather pessimistic, and I suppose I'm superstitious, which would explain why I refuse to think bad things about me getting Reaped.

GOD, I just thought about me getting Reaped!

_I bet I'm gonna get Reaped now._

_This sucks._

_My life sucks._

_I'll die in the Hunger Games._

_I should say good-bye to my friends._

_God, why did I have to think that?!_

_I'm so frigging stupid. _

_No wonder I got all B's this semester._

_Straighten up, Caty._

_Go say farewell to your mother. She'll miss you._

Right_._

I run up the stairs bawling.

"What's wrong, Caty?" my mother asks, her voice concerned. I don't cry. At all. Never. Ever.

"I'M GONNA GET REEEEEEEEEAPED," I sob into her arms. "I'M TOO BEAUTIFUL TO GO!" _Just kidding._

"Sweetie, hush," my mom soothes me. "You're not going to get Reaped." _Yeah, right, Mom. _"You won't. There's no chance."

"I'M A GREEN FREAK," I scream at her. My body convulses in racking cries, and my mother holds me closer in a death grip. _Ouch_.

"You are _not_ a green freak and you will _not_ be Reaped," my mother assures me.

"AS IF!" I shriek, pulling away from her. I feel betrayed.

"Caty," my mother begins. I hold up a hand that feels wet from my salty tears.

"SAVE IT, WOMAN," I screech. She jumps, frightened. _Good_.

"Caty, why are you doing this?" she whispers.

I don't know. I like being powerful. I choose not to answer. Instead, I march out of the room.

That is the last time I see my mother.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Caty Lianne Peterson!"

Nobody visits me in the Justice Building. Not my mother, not my friends. I am alone.

**A/N: Thanks for submitting! Just one more thing, though- please no more people where the father or mother dies. Almost all of these people have at least one parent dead, and a couple are orphans. I can rarely find one where there are two parents.**

**That's it though, thanks for now!**

**~nevergone4ever~**


	9. Kenji and Lilicon from 3

**A/N: Should I do two tributes per chapter? This is getting sort of long and I'm not even done with all the tributes D:**

**District 3, Kenji Jummers, 18**

When the clock strikes six, usually I'm always up and alert, whipping my head around for potential threats. This is true of today, when I'm in a house full of people I distrust and my sister to protect. The Reaping? HAH. I'm not worried of that foolishness. Aside from the negative odds I'd get picked, my tesserae slips are none, very little compared to other people in our district.

My legs are curled up. My arms each hold a saber, ready to lunge at potential threats. Nobody would ever try to get past me. I'm smarter than them all. Fools. One day my parents will be sorry they died in that wretched train accident and left me to an old foster couple. These people I live with have no idea of my brutality. They know I hate most people, but they have never seen me with a weapon.

Once I lashed out at a boy named Rin. He had called me ugly. The next day, the police were on a manhunt for Rin and I was at home, smiling at what I had just done.

Nobody has ever found Rin- but then again, nobody has ever looked in the mugs at the back of our cupboards. Killing him was tricky. He kept yelling. Being noisy. Trying to get people's attention. But one quick stab with a butcher knife and he was gone. I cut him up, threw everything but the bones in a blender. The bones I fed to the District Three dogs. They are smart and they buried them.

Good dogs.

I glance over in the mirror briefly before I scan the room. Staring back at me in a piercing, cold, harsh glare is a handsome guy. Spiky black hair, green eyes, completely tan skin. A six-pack. Nobody would want to mess with me. Rin was stupid to call me fat.

This brings to mind another time I beat somebody. My sister, Lilicon, was best friends with a guy named Shikle. He asked her on a date, and she said yes. When he arrived at the door I was ready. I beat him so much that he still chokes up blood and is currently in the mental hospital. Lilicon was horrified. The next day she cried and asked me why I did it. I remember yelling at her that we could only trust each other and then I ran away from her. I stayed in a shallow grave for a night before I went back home.

I swallow. I heard a noise.

It is my foster mother, Renee.

"Kenji," she whispers softly. "Are you awake?"

I toss the sabers under my bed and close my eyes. She peers in the door- I can tell by a rush of cold streaks into my room. She stays there for a moment before shutting the door and walking down the hallway.

That was close. Good thing I am ahead of most people.

-.-.-.-.-.-

**District Three, Lilicon Jummers, 18**

I wake up at ten o'clock on Sunday. The house is unusually quiet, so I enjoy this moment of peace. This does not happen often. Normally Father and Kenji are always fighting, yelling, screaming. Whenever that happens Mother takes me to the woods in our backyard, and we practice knife skills with our lone butcher knife. We aim at black and orange circles painted on trees. I have gotten pretty good over the course of three years. I can hit them every time.

I peer out my doorframe. All the bedroom doors are closed. I shuffle out of my room, my furry yellow slippers making whooshing noises against the soft, carpeted floor. I knock once, twice, thrice on Kenji's door.

"Yeah?" he grunts gruffly. I open the door.

"Kenji," I sigh softly. "What the heck are you doing?" Kenji is in a sort of position where his legs are behind his head. He's stuck. It would be funnier if he were grinning, but this is no laughing matter. He's not flexible at all, so to me it is even a mystery how he got into that position.

"Help me," he commands. I tug at the left leg and he nearly topples over. I giggle at him- he's so hilarious.

A minute later, he is unstuck and rubbing his thighs and wincing all at once.

"How did you even get like that?" I ask him. He shrugs.

"I'm practicing yoga."

"But I thought you thought yoga was for idiots, ninnies."

"I may have changed my mind."

I roll my blue eyes. "So… is that why you and Father are not fighting?"

He gives me a push. "Stop saying that. He's not our real father."

"What would you rather I call him?" I question, my voice soft. "Papa? Dada? Patriarch? Paterfamilias?"

"Um, I think now I'm liking Father," he responds gruffly.

I lie down on his rug, staring at the ceiling. "Are you worried for today, Kenji?"

Kenji blinks. "Worried for what?"

I give his foot a pinch. "The Reaping," I pronounce.

Kenji shakes his head. "Should I be worried?"

"Sort of," I say. "You could get picked."

"I'm not worried about that bull crap," he tells me. "That's all fake. Nobody really will get picked. I have a theory, Lily. My theory is that-"

"Breakfast!" My mother's voice rings out.

Kenji rolls his eyes. "Hold that thought, Lily."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Kenji**

Clad in a black sweatshirt and black trainers, I stand at the front of the eighteen-year-old's crowd. I stare menacingly at Three's escort as he selects a slip of paper from the huge glass ball. It is girls first.

"For our District Three girl tribute, we have Lilicon Jummers!"

My heart literally stops. I see Lilicon, her blond hair in a high bun and a red dress covering her torso and legs. Her shoes are rags, basically. But she is beautiful. Her beauty is tattered by fear and nervousness. She makes her way to the stage, and I see her small Adam's apple bob up and down quickly as she swallows.

"Lilicon… Such a pretty name."

"Thank you." I can tell that Lily is terrified.

Our escort grins at the crowd. "And now for the boys!"

**Lilicon**

Oh… my… God. I am seriously going to die. I have been Reaped, and I will die. I don't hear what the escort says when he reads off the boy's name. I am so upset. Black circles swim before my eyes. I'm dizzy. I need a chair. I might faint. I pinch my pale wrist and see-

OH MY GOD.

OH MY GOD.

OH… MY… GOD!

Kenji is the boy tribute.

Kenji is going into the arena with me.

Kenji will die as well.

Kenji does not stand a chance against the Careers.

Kenji has never trained with Mom, and I thought it was stupid of him not to.

Kenji is my brother.

Kenji is the only one I truly love in this world.

Kenji is my best friend.

Kenji will die at my side.

I will watch Kenji die.

**A/N: Reviews much appreciated, folks. (Bow.)**


	10. Willow from Seven

**A/N: This is the fourth chapter of this story I'm working on today! Whew! **

**District Seven, Willow Birch, 13**

My name is Willow. I am thirteen. I live in District Seven. My family is relatively wealthy, since my ancestors worked very hard. Our lumber company is known throughout all of Seven! Most people would be thrilled to have such destiny. But not I. I'm not a very hard worker. I just enjoy a good book better than I enjoy sawing wood or throwing axes. Whenever it is time to work, I hide in the pine forest and read.

I've never been the most popular. I'm always like the shy, unnoticed girl whose nose is always in a book- or reading. I read everything. Boxes of cereal, nutrition facts, slogans on billboards, tiny print on new merchandise, the carved words that nobody can read on the old Grandfather Birch. Nobody tried as hard as I to decode those words. Nobody has asked me what they say. If you'd really like to know, they say Lisa Anne Marie Quicksan the Second ❤ Jonathon Toby Kettle. It took about a week to decipher, including looking through newspapers and many rubbings of Grandfather Birch. But I found the answer, and that was all that mattered.

Today is the day of the Reaping for the 68th annual Hunger Games. Although I'm nervous, I choose not to think about it. Instead, I am going to simply hang out with my family- they're logging, though. Should I log? I always want to help, but my petite frame can't take all the hard work. However, I do have a photographic memory, and that helps when needing to count logs quickly.

I choose to help anyways.

I have a large family. There's Maple, my mother, and Robert, my father. Then my siblings are Red, 19, Juniper, 17, Steven, 13, and little Lily, who is 9. Red and Juniper think they're the best sisters in the history of EVER, so they pay no attention to Steve, Lily, or I. Steve thinks girls are stupid (apparently HE hasn't hit puberty yet) and he keeps to himself. Lily loves me the most of all people, so she always helps me with things.

Like today, the Birch family was stripping logs of bark and grinding bark down into fine dust. I chose a grinding job, and Lily was at my feet, ready to help. She turned the wheel with me, watching the sharp teeth dig into the soft bark with interest. Steve, also a grinder, stared at the sky while he did his job.

Over where some other families worked, I saw my two best friends in the world- Rose Spruce and John Greenman. They'd be so happy to see me today. They think that I never work with trees.

"Rose." My voice was garbled. I tried again.

"John, Rose! Helloooo!"

They didn't see me, simply kept stripping logs of their bark.

I sigh. No use making a fool of myself getting them to notice me. I retired back to grinding the soft bark into dust. Some got into my eye and I sneezed. Bluck. I hate sawdust so much. It had so much more potential as plain old wood- it could potentially be a chair, for example, or it could be used for an hour or so as firewood. It could be made into gorgeous wooden earrings, or maybe a plate. But as sawdust, I did not know where it went. Maybe a food processing plant somewhere in Ten, Nine, or Eleven. Maybe it lit lamps somewhere in Twelve or One or Two for the miners.

But here this sawdust had no use. It was as worthless as me.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Our girl tribute for District Seven is Willow Birch!"

I stared at our escort and her bright orange hair accusingly.

I suppose nobody wanted to volunteer because… well, everybody likes a scrawny little kid going into the Games. It's one less person who could kill off their betting.

Numbly I walk up to the stage and take one last look around District Seven.

**TRIBUTES SO FAR:**

**District One**

**F- Diamond Star**

**M- **

**District Two**

**F- Eve Glory**

**M- Justice Wright**

**District Three**

**F- Lilicon Jummers**

**M- Kenji Jummers**

**District Four**

**F- Kristine Murray**

**M-**

**District Five-**

**F- Sparkella Munez**

**M- Jacques Frost**

**District Six**

**F- Jacqueline Edwards**

**M-**

**District Seven**

**F- Willow Birch**

**M- Jack Marko**

**District Eight**

**F- Caty Lianne Peterson**

**M-**

**District Nine**

**F- Hydrangea Samson**

**M- Roland Sanders**

**District Ten**

**F- Lily Hoff**

**M-**

**District Eleven**

**F- Saffron North**

**M-**

**District Twelve**

**F- Cloe Berry**

**M-  
**

**So as you can see, all the female spots are taken. Most of the male spots are open, though, so if you'd like to submit a tribute, you'd better soon before we begin training them for the Games!**

**May the odds be ever in YOUR favor :D**

**nevergone4ever**


	11. Saffron from 11

**District Eleven, Saffron North, 15**

Morning in Eleven is so predictable.

Wake up. Go through the people wash (basically, take off your clothing and hope to make it where you can get warm water. I'm told it resembles a car wash, for rich people in the Capitol, except the people of Eleven screw their eyes shut and stay stock-still as a conveyor belt moves them along. Tubes squirt soap and shampoo onto you, and then you are dunked into a tank for ten seconds. If you do not get your hair clean within that time, it does not matter. You're out.)

After the people wash, you dress and eat a small tart for breakfast, except most of the time all the early risers have gotten there before you and have taken the good ones such as apple or strawberry, so you are stuck with rhubarb or- shudder- peanut milk. I have had it once, and it made me vomit. Ever since, I've gotten up at five and gone to breakfast by five-forty-five.

After your breakfast tart, you down it with a pint of milk, issued every day to members of the no-tesserae club. If you make the year without taking any tesserae, that's what happens- you're issued a pink of cold, fresh, frothy, white milk to drink. My brother, Vine, can no longer be part of the no-tesserae club because he recently turned 18. But my little sister, Heather, is yet too small at only 10. So I am depended on, I am needed to get milk for our family every day. If I sneak off to take a few bundles of tesserae, somehow the club would know. So my slate has to be completely clean, and we each get a couple gulps of milk per day.

My father puts all of his milk into black coffee to sweeten it a bit. My mother gives half of her milk to the cat, and the other half to the neighbor kids next door. By then it's almost nothing, but they always seem very excited when she gives it to them so I do not complain.

Vine simply downs his milk, as do I. But Heather, the stupidly fascinating creature, Heather gives most of hers to a plant she is growing. She hopes it will be able to be grown in mass, and feed more people per plant than anything we grow in the orchards here. Heather says that this plant will have a sort of crisp, cold texture and the outside will be a pale yellowish-green. She planted an apple seed, a blueberry seed, a pear seed, and a banana seed all in one. I only hope that her plant actually takes off- although I doubt so, as she is just ten.

When I wake up today and begin heading over to the people wash, Heather stops me. "Saffron," she says quietly.

I peer over at her. She is wrapped in a brown blanket and is gloomy. "What do you want… punk?" I ask.

"If I get Reaped, will you volunteer for me?" she asks.

I blink. "You're ten. You have two more years."

She shrugs, her black hair coming out of its loose ponytail. "Well, I know that… but I mean in general."

"I suppose I would," I consider this for a second and then ruffle her hair playfully. "Mum would kill me if I didn't, hah!"

"This is no laughing matter." Heather adjusts her thin glasses and pouts at me. "You have to understand the importance of this, Saffron."

I wrinkle my nose. "Since when are you my mother?" I say smarmily before slamming the door behind me, not wanting an answer.

The people wash is packed. Most people have already awaken. I inwardly scoff at myself for not arriving sooner. This place is filled with bodies reeking of sweat, dirt, and grime. I gag and my stomach is glad I ate no tart yet, otherwise it would be a puddle on the floor.

I undress quickly and stuff my clothing into a small locker reserved for our family. I wait about a half hour until I get a chance to hop onto the conveyor belt, then I dash onto it before the next group. I curl up into a ball, covering my eyes and face in general. Soap and cold water streams down my bare skin. I shiver. Most people only know the feeling of medium amounts of soap and a gentle showerhead sprinkling water down. This was flat-out buckets of water poured down, and the soap was slimy. It had to be scraped off if I wanted to be fully rid of it.

Finally all the wretched soap was rinsed and chipped off, and the belt went through the dryer. It blew my hair back into a silky tangle of black fur, and made my skin dry. Once the belt dumped me onto a wet tile floor, I raced for my locker and then headed over to the cafeteria of Hemmingway, the neighborhood I lived in. I snatched up a blueberry tart from the counter. Next stop: home.

Heather is in the same position. I look around, but Vine is nowhere to be found. "Where's our brother?" I ask my sister.

She gives a low sigh. "He's in the banana trees again. Says he's trying to earn a little extra money. We have about a pound of fruit left, which will last lunchtime."

I avert my eyes from the kitchen. The tart is finished. I'm ashamed to still be hungry. My belly will rumble at the most inopportune time, I just know it. Perhaps now. Terrified at the thought, I dart out of the room to my bedroom.

Reaping outfit- black pants and a silky navy shirt? Check. Makeup, which is dirt brushed over my eyelids? Check. Breath? I breathe into my hand. Yuck. The tart did nothing for my breath. I pop a dried mint leaf into my mouth and suck.

I am ready to be Reaped, if that's the way fate goes.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The boy, from his spot onstage, looks terrified. I know that we're a sorry couple to be Reaped. I must admit, I was shocked when our escort projected my name out. But here on the stage, sitting quietly, this is all becoming reality. Will I die? No. I am determined to make it out alive.

My belly rumbles. It serves as a reminder that I am too weak and fragile to win.

Darn.

**A/N: Questions! DO YOU HAVE A QUERY YOU WANT TO ASK? I will answer every few chapters. Here's answers to some questions that were previously asked!**

**(On Cloe Berry from 12) I am as confused- was her sister called or is she a bit you know...crazy?**

**Cloe is a bit mentally unstable. She hears things that others do not.**

**(On Lilicon and Kenji from 3) ****These are a sweet team although I am confused to what she meant with the 'I will watch Kenji die'… does that mean she wants to kill him or she will be with him when he dies? **

**Lilicon was thinking that since Kenji refused to take weapon lessons from her mother, he will have no chance and therefore she will watch him die in the Hunger Games as she believes he will die before her.**

**Those are the only questions for now. Any more? I'll answer reviews and reviews only if you have ? about this story.**


	12. Justice from Two

**District Two, Justice Wright, 14**

Life in Two has always been so simple for most. Wake up each morning, go to school or mine, and then head over to the Training Center until you collapse. Yep, that's basically what all of Two's residents do until they are in their sixties. The young children go to school to learn how to shoot a bow or throw a spear.

But I only said it was simple for most.

My mother, Vicia Wright, won the 45th Hunger Games at a young age. She was a brutal killing machine, stabbing and throwing and eluding. I watched her Games on tape once. I saw her seduce a guy from Four into thinking she loved him dearly, and when it got to the final six she beheaded him in his sleep.

I never knew who my father was, despite everybody in Two knowing who my mom was. Mom says that he's probably a Peacekeeper now, and that probably is the case. Why? Because I'm not stupid. I know how Snow sold her body to greedy Capitol citizens ready for a good night. They were not careful enough, Snow wasn't. And I am the result of his terrible actions.

I wasn't even supposed to be born.

Mom married Clash five years ago, and ever since, he has been my father figure. We've really bonded over slicing dummies open and shooting arrows long into the night. I've accepted him as my father figure, I suppose, but that does not mean he's more special to me than my mother. She has been the only one I can trust for years. The only friend I have is Brick Hart, a fellow victor's child. His brother won about ten years ago, and our houses are right next to each others' in the Victor's Village.

Brick is older than me, about seventeen months, but it appears that I am more mature than him by far. He has a flat-top of blond hair and bright, cheery blue eyes. Me? My hair is auburn and I have blue eyes. I'm different from most of the brunettes and blondes. I'm a coppertop in a sea of brown and blonde. It's just… I'm different.

My mother has always taught me that killing is wrong, because she realized it only after she won her Games. But I already knew that, even when she told me otherwise. After she had me. Before she knew it was a mistake.

I surely will be Reaped. I decided to allow it, to say that I wish nobody would volunteer. There is nothing left for me in this world unless I win.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Oh, a victor's child for male tribute!"

The moment of fate. I squeeze my eyes shut, crossing my fingers.

"Justice Wright!"

"NO!" screams Brick, a distance away. All of District Two is quiet, it seems, and I am enjoying this moment. Surprisingly enough, there are no volunteers. Of this I am glad.

At the Justice Building my mother and Clash and Brick all come to wish me good luck. I brush it off. I say that luck is for fools. I will win anyways.

**A/N: What did you think? I think that I don't need any more tributes. There are about five more chapters to write. My fingers are tired. Submit if you wish, but know that your chapter will be short. **

**Not everybody will have a POV individually in the Capitol- it might skip around. For ex. In the Training Center there might be only four tribute's POV's in two chapters. In the scores, only a couple tributes will tell their reactions. But everybody gets a separate POV for the interviews- of course. And the Games? Everybody gets a ton until… (drumroll please!) they DIE. Oooooooh….**

**Remember to rack up those sponsor points! :D**


	13. Eve from 2

**A/N: Whoops. I should have put this in the previous chapter. Oh, well. Too late now…**

**District Two, Eve Glory, 17**

_I am SO not a morning person. LOL. _

_I mean, all of my bros and sisses wake up like 5 AM 2 RUN. How cray cray is THAT? It's 5 FRIGGING AM! Go back 2 BED!_

_Aside from that, ppl seriously need 2 get a life when it comes 2 brkfst. Just EAT the cereal and be done! Do not sit there, chewin' sloooooooowly. It gets on evrybdy's nerves._

_Next- Why in the world do ppl jog in the mrng? I'd do that… if I wuz escorted by some Avxes. JK. _

_But honestly, ppl- get. A. LIFE!_

I close my furry green diary and stare at my ceiling. Night times were when I was most alive. Why was I just moping around like some POOR person?

"You're rich," I whisper to myself. I nod. Right. I always need a little reassurance. 

I tiptoe down to the basement and enter a room that I rarely go in, except to fetch a bottle for Mother when the Avoxes are all busy. It has a musty smell and is cold, but now I enjoy the feeling. I am especially down right now, since I have decided that I will not see this house in forever. I'm going to volunteer for tribute!

You see, my parents carry the family legacy. All my siblings have won Hunger Games, starting with my father, Copper. The next year it was the boy from Six, and then the next year my mother, Sparkle, won. They married eight years later. THEN… my siblings were born. Shimmer won. Silver won. Honey won. And now here I am, Eve Glory. I want to be a person that people talk about, to start a family legacy of my own. I want to be the person that people talk about in hushed whispers when they talk about great victors.

I step into the wine cellar. The smells envelope me in a cloud of euphoria. I wish I could stop, but this is so addictive and nobody has found me out yet. I grab a bottle that looks especially promising. I gulp it all down. My belly sloshes around with the red liquid and my throat is on fire. But I throw it in the trash and grab another bottle. I need much time to think. It seems that the walls are closing in on me.

I, dizzy, pass out.

When I awaken, it is at the hands of my angry mother and Shimmer. I scowl at my sister, who is nervously biting her fingernails.

"SHIMMER!" I bellowed at her.

Five hours later, I'm in bed, my door locked on the outside by my mother. She doesn't want me to go anywhere until the reaping tomorrow. This is not fine by my terms. I want to go into my room and strangle Shimmer. No doubt she skipped down to have a glass of wine before bed and found me with the two bottles, flat-out drunk. I am so mad at her, I seethe even now.

A light knock sounds on my door.

"WHAT?" I scream out. I hear clicking sounds that means it is getting unlocked, and then the door opens slowly.

My sister Shimmer stands there, her eyes puffy and red.

"What do you want?" I snarl at her.

"I want you to forgive me," she responds, sniffling. "I'm sorry."

She is beautiful, even crying. But that is not something that will make me forgive her.

"No," I say, tasting the word on my tongue. "I can't forgive you. Sorry, sis."

"But why not?" she yells. "I have always stood up for you, and look where that's got me!"

"Why did you tell her I was down there?"

"I didn't!" she screams back. "I went down there to fetch a bottle for Silver and BOOM! Mom ran down, saying she didn't tell me what type she needed, and there you were, drunk and asleep!"

I size her up. She's a good six inches taller than me, and as a victor she has more experience. Her muscles are strong. Plus, I have a hangover. This would not be a good time to go at fighting.

"Shut up," I mutter, burying myself under my plush covers.

"NO," she cries. "It's true, Eve, you have to believe me! I didn't mean for you to get in so much trouble!"

"I don't care!" I shout at her. I don't know what I think anymore.

I fall asleep.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

In the morning I'm groggy, light-headed, and just a bit hung-over, but it's much better than last night. I pop a couple red pills in my mouth, said to ease any illness, and head off to the reaping without saying good-bye.

I'm so groggy I nearly pass out when they prick my finger.

I almost faint when they call the boy, some guy named Justine or something.

I'm so groggy when they call out "Anastasia Capri!" I almost forget to shout those fatal words.

But I do.

And then I am the girl tribute for District Two.

**A/N: Space-Age Dino, a guest, brought up an excellent point when he reviewed. He offered some tips for a tribute if you have not already submitted, and I laughed. A lot. More than once.**

**SpaceAgeDino: Here some character archetypes for people who are struggling to come up with tributes.**

**A quiet and weak looking psychopath**

**Someone with a strict code of some sort (justice?)**

**A very strong and dumb lumbering brute**

**- A stereotypical person of native descent who is ritualistic, in tune with nature, and has honed their senses**

**- A religious person who gets "prophetic visions"  
**

**- An Amazonian style woman**

**A funny and sarcastic kleptomaniac with camouflage proficiency**

**Good work, Dino. Good work.**


	14. Jacqueline from Six

**A/N: Only five more tributes before SYOT closes! Then onto the Training! WOOHOO!**

**District Six, Jacqueline Edwards, 18**

Known as the runt of the district

I am overlooked

But something they do not know about me

Are many things, plentiful

I am deadly with a whip

I once took a knife blade

Threw it in a powerful blender

Crushed it, then glued some shards onto a whip

It killed a dog

I wept for a week in private

But then I felt better

When a puppy appeared at our door

It was golden and brown

But had only one eye

Animals are rare in Six

So I took him

Named him Trevor

Trevor is my best friend

And when my parents died he was there for me

Licking my face and cuddling

Trevor is five now

And my great-aunt is finally beginning to accept him

Now he can fetch her things and she loves him

Today I am worried

For the Reaping

A terrible thing

But I do not think I will get chosen

But I fear for my cousins, relatives

Our escort reaches into the bowl

A smile creeps up her face

"Jacqueline Edwards" is all she says

Heads turn to me

I am scared

I burst into tears

They call me the runt of the district

Dwarf of six

I will prove them wrong

But I am scared.

**A/N: New writing style. Just for Jackie, though. Next time maybe it will rhyme.**

**I SAW CATCHING FIRE! I love it. Especially Joanna! NEW FAVE CHARACTER! I love her interview! **

**Oh, and Finnick is awesome too. SO HANDSOME. I DROOLED ALL OVER MY POPCORN.**


	15. Lily from 10

**District Ten, Lily Hoff, 12**

"Lily! Lily!"

Lily whipped her head around to see her mother calling her. Light hair with a smattering of freckles across her pale face, she was a cute little girl with an innocent mind.

"Mom," she called softly. "Quiet. Sable and Myrrh are sleeping."

Sable and Myrrh were the family's two horses. They were not only horses to ride, oh no. They were sources of transportation, friends, family, and sometimes carriers of important news. For instance, last autumn when baby Tristan was being born, Lily gave Sable a note on her bridle saying "Come quick! Mother in labor!" and sent her to the cow barn where her father was. Tristan was born without problem, by the way.

"Sorry, sorry," her mother replied. "Come inside, Lily. It's getting cold out."

"Why?" Lily asked. "I already had breakfast." A slab of dried pork and a hard-boiled egg had been her meal, eaten on top of the Red Mesa overlooking a canyon. Myrrh had protested in no way, he had just wanted half of her egg (to which Lily happily had complied.)

"Don't you remember? Today is the Reaping, so we'd better get there early."

Lily nearly burst into tears at the thought of her getting picked. She had thought previously that people who had trained the chariot horses would have gotten an excused absence, but of course that was not the case.

"What should I wear?" she pondered as she trotted into the room she shared with her sister, Hayley.

There was nearly nothing for her to wear besides a red floral-print dress she rarely wore to church. Her other outfits all reeked of horse dung, were dirty, or were ripped. Lily put on the dress, which resulted in a ripped seam as she had not worn it for ages. She twisted her body around in a sort of exercise crunch, loosening the dress on her skinny frame. She slipped on her work boots and set off braiding her hair.

Braiding was something that Lily was never very good at. Her hands slipped along the hairline, and in an instant the pattern would come undone. Usually. Today, it seemed, the odds were in her favor. Her fingers slid easily along her hair, pulling where it was needed and making a simple, fat braid along the left side of her head. Securing it with a white ribbon, she skipped downstairs.

"Mom," she hummed. Her mother was in a simple but gorgeous peach colored dress. "When are we leaving?" Despite being very nervous, Lily also had excitement running through her veins.

"Lily," tried her mother. "Calm down, calm down! We'll get there soon enough." It was known throughout the family that her mother's brother had been Reaped and he actually won, but died soon after of a brain tumor that was undetected. Since then, her mother loathed Reapings.

"Are you feeling OK?" Lily asked. "You seem uptight."

"No." Her mother shook her head. "I'm doing all right. I'm just thinking."

Lily nodded. "I'm going to feed Sable and Myrrh," she said.

"Sure," her mother replied, obvious that she had some things in her mind.

Lily strolled out to the stable and got out the bags of oats and such for Sable and Myrrh. They were still asleep, so instead of dumping it all into the trough she took it out handful by handful until she was interrupted.

"Lily."

She spun around to see her oldest little siblings, Rachel and Brandon. Their heads, held high, gave off an impression of confidence, even though these two had no confidence whatsoever. Rachel looked much older than her eleven years, since her face was outlined with wrinkles of worry.

"Mom wants you back. Apparently, they've moved the Reaping up." Brandon rubbed his temples worriedly.

Lily bit her lip and nodded. "Be right there. Should I draw up a chariot?"

"Sure," said Rachel before she and her twin headed back to the house. She called back as an afterthought, "We'll bring you breakfast!"

"I had some!" Lily shouted back. Rachel nodded curtly.

-.-.-.-.-.-

"Lily Hoff!"

It seemed like all of District Tens' eyes were on the small girl as she plodded up the stairs to the stage. Once up there, she burst into tears, failing her goal to remain strong.

As they called the boy tribute, she whispered to herself behind the waterfall of tears, "Why me? Why me?"

**A/N: Waiting for Catching Fire to come out on DVD so I can watch Johanna Mason's elevator performance again. Her interview performance. Her GAMES performance. Everything Johanna Mason. (or Finnick or Mags!)**


	16. David from Eight

**A/N: Only two more Reapings after this. So glad. I'm tired of these. I need a caramel frappe. :O**

**District Eight, David Brown, 18**

Hello. How do you do? I'm Brown- David Brown, to be precise. I live in the gorgeous countryside of District Eight. Rather fabulous, eh wot?

But of course, some people do not believe this charm comes in such a bulky package. Well, TO HELL WITH THAT IDEA. I'M David Brown. I'M a rebel of Nine and I care about nothing. Nothing but my brother Steve and my sister Carly.

My parents? Psh, Dad's a drunk and Mom's such a frigging worrier that she barely escapes from the kitchen. All that comes out of that kitchen is food. Cheese sandwiches, peanut butter cookies, raspberry smoothies, hot coffee. Dad's location is undetermined at most times unless he's passed out on our couch. Otherwise he can be anywhere- under a Dumpster, by the river, in the basement. Nobody knows for sure where he is, say, now.

Reapings? HELL, I don't give a crud about Reapings. If I do get Reaped, though, I just turn on my charm to maximum.

"Surely, miss, there must be a mistake. I was told by Snow himself when he came here last year that the Reaping would withdraw Andrew Cortez and Sandra Maydon."

I've got this in the bag. I'm positive of it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"David Brown!"

I smooth out my shirt and take a breath as I walk up to the stage. I wait until the female tribute is called before I begin to speak to the escort.

"Ma'am, I believe there has been a mistake in the- ma'am? Ma'am?"

The escort seemed distant. "Yes? What is it?"

I regained my smooth, suave voice. "I think that there has possibly been an error in-"

"Truffa! Truffa!" a small messenger boy rushes up to the escort. "You're needed on the train, stat! Peacekeeper orders!"

"Hurry, Caty, hurry, David!" Truffa orders, and before I know it I have bid my parents farewell, also my siblings, I'm on the train, and the only thought running though my head is I am going into the arena.

**A/N: R and R! (Read and REVIEW, puh-lease :D ) Only two more! I'm sooooo happy! :D Honestly… I am DONE with Reapings, D-O-N-E. Now just Jacques and Elijah xD**

**~nevergone4ever~**


	17. Jacques from 5

**District Five, Jacques Frost, 16**

The doctor sighs and I inhale sharply. The pungent smell of ammonia fills my nostrils and I gag silently up in that old ventilation shaft.

"Are there any survivors?" my mother almost seems afraid to ask.

The doctor shakes his head with finality. "It was a head-on collision, ma'am. I'm afraid not. One little girl… she was from Five, a gorgeous little amber-eyed lass… she stayed alive till our medics arrived. I told her to hang on, to- to- to wait, but… her head. It was hanging by not much, skin and muscle. It fell off into my lap."

My mother races for a trash can and begins vomiting. I don't feel so well, either. It is obvious that that little girl was my younger sister, Belinda. Belinda's casket will not be open at her funeral. Not open for viewing. Her body, probably mangled, lies in a simple urn here somewhere.

And my big brother. Benjamin. He has died too. It is just me, my mother, and my father now.

Well, perhaps not my father. He and my mom have been fighting a lot. But maybe this thing will bring them together.

_Belinda's beheaded._

I feel dizzy. The lights pouring into the narrow shaft from the room overwhelm me and I fall onto my back.

_Belinda's beheaded. Belinda's beheaded. Belinda's beheaded._

I bury my face into my blue sweatshirt, mashing it into the soft fabric.

_BELINDA BEHEADED, BELINDA BEHEADED, BELINDA BE-_

I let out a low moan and pass out.

When I awaken, the room is dark. I take a glance at the glowing clock. _2:48_, it reads. Crap. My mother and father must have gone to dinner, gone to bed, gone to weep already. Where was I?

_Belinda beheaded._

Over the next fifteen minutes I have a rather vast schedule- escape from that shaft. Dry heave into wastebasket, then vomit for real. I think of Belinda and a fresh wave of puke comes on.

_Belinda be-_

I shiver. Nope. I am not going to think about the train crash any more.

I run to my house. Snow coats the ground. Beautiful. Then I look at my bare feet, slightly blue from running in that snow. Not so beautiful.

But I look out into the rolling hills of Five, the ones beyond the electrocution fence that is always buzzing with electricity. They are covered in sparkling, gorgeous snow that looks too surreal to be, well, real.

_Belinda beheaded._

The snow is now stained. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and dart to my house.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The Reaping, that's what I should have been worrying about. But all I can think about as they prick my finger and shove me towards town square is how mournful I am. I never should have snuck into the shaft. I should have been a good boy and waited until my mother was home, so I would not have heard the nitty-gritty details of my siblings' death. Belinda. Benjamin. Was his death as gruesome? Or was it a simple smack, a puddle of red, and then it was all over?

"Sparkella Munez!"

Some albino girl runs up to the stage and I bury my face deep into my blue sweatshirt, wiggling my toes.

"Jacques Frost!"

Darn.

The stage is vast. Glossy. Pretty. Sparkella looks downright scared. Me? I'm cool. Chill. Just, you know, thinking about stuff. Thinking about-

_Belinda beheaded._

With one heave, my meager breakfast coats the floor of Five. I am escorted off the stage.

When my parents arrive to greet me in the Justice Building I am not there. When they leave I am not there. When they plop me on the train I am not there.

I am thinking of Belinda.

**A/N: Quick and easy. This form didn't have much meat on it, so I added some. You like?**


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